Alchemy (42 page)

‘I am both constable by election because no one else will suffer it, and gaoler for my livelihood. What would you have me do, so it is lawful and does not put my living in danger?’

‘First fetch me pen and paper. I will give you money to buy them,’ for he had opened his mouth to protest. ‘I wish to write a letter which you must have carried for me.’

‘And will you also write a spell to curse me then?’

‘I shall curse you if you do not fetch them,’ and I forced myself to laugh in lightness for I knew that if he should turn against me in truth, as now he wavered, he might testify against me that I had said or done this or that devilish thing. ‘But you must bring me as many sheets of paper as the money will buy for I have letters to write to such of my friends who can help me but who do not know where I may be found since I was snatched in the dark.’

‘Snatched you say.’

‘Yes, by those who wished me harm. And there will be those even now enquiring for me.’

‘I had no hand in this. I only do my duty as ordered by the justice who committed you to my charge.’

‘And so I shall testify when my friends find me as they surely will.’

‘I will do what you ask mistress, in case you are a witch or have powerful friends, either of which might destroy a poor man like me.’

‘Here is a shilling. Get me what I ask, as much paper as may be had, a capon for my dinner, and some small beer.’

‘Even in my wife’s old gown you speak like a young master.

This may be a kind of witchcraft itself.’ And he left still grumbling.

This time I awaited his return without fear, comforted and emboldened by the feel of the silk against my skin under the gown. My secret was out yet I was not broken. And I had set myself a task to write an account of all that had happened so that, whatever my fate, some word of my presence on the earth might be preserved. But first I would write to my lady.

It’s taken me some sleuthing on my computer and in the Yellow Pages to track down a couple of rope ladders. Torches were easy. Now they’re packed in the Crusader’s carrier and I’m spinning down the M3 feeling like a real prick or anorak out to foil I don’t know what with my pathetic amateur seamus equipment. A call to Charlie’s mobile has set up a rendezvous in the bike shed at seven. And now I’m wondering why I bothered with torches. It’s June and we’re rushing towards the longest day. It’ll be broad daylight most, if not all, of the time we’re at the chapel. Not very bright, Jade. Cockup time.

In fact the madness of the scheme looms larger and larger as I turn on to the road for the college and head towards the gates. I must have a story ready in case I’m challenged but my skull is suddenly full of loose sand where a brain ought to be. If only I knew enough, had enough evidence to go to the police and dump it on them. I see myself trying to explain.

A conspiracy, you say? To hold a religious service? I’m afraid there’s not much we can do about that in a free country. We’re all entitled to our views no matter now strange they may seem to others. Unless they promote racism or terrorism of course.’

The adrenaline’s racking up my pulse rate as I dismount and push the bike up to the gate. But my pass card works. No alarms go off. I’m inside with the bars swinging to behind me. I make for the bike shed. Charlie is there already with a slim brown
young man I can imagine gliding skilfully between the tables of an Indian restaurant. Willowy rather than robust. I hope that it doesn’t come to a punch up.

‘This is my friend Omi.’ We shake hands. ‘Some of the elect have already left St John’s Hall. The others, not the elect, have been warned that they must stay in until after the Gathering is over. Then a bell will sound and the doors will be unlocked automatically. Omi came out with some of the elect.’

‘They don’t all know each other then?’

‘They aren’t encouraged to get together or get too friendly except during their services,’ Omi says.

‘That’s some help for us. But Molders will know who everyone is and I bet she’ll be keeping a lookout. If only I knew a way to the outside of the chapel at the back without getting so close to the main door.’

‘I do, Jade,’ says Charlie. ‘I tried it out earlier. You see I didn’t go home last night. I hid and slept here in the bike shed. It means a bit of climbing, I’m afraid.’

‘Let’s have it.’

‘There’s a window above the wall bars in the gym. It leads on to a flat roof above the kitchens. From there you can get down into the grounds on the far side and go through a shrubbery to the outside of the chapel. I’ve seen your iron staircase and the three doors.’

‘The most dangerous part will be getting to the gym. You go first, Omi, as the least suspicious. Then you can signal Charlie and I’ll come along last. We have to pass the dean’s door. Let’s hope he’s psyching himself up for the big number, whatever that is. What’s for sure is if we’re caught on the way all hell will break loose. We’ll just have to risk it.’

We leave the bike shed after Omi has sussed outside to see all’s clear. He trots off towards the main campus building and disappears inside. Then he reappears, nods for Charlie and vanishes again. Charlie follows. At the door he stops, disappears,
comes back and nods for me. I’m hurrying after, not wanting to be left behind. Once inside I can spot him ahead at the next turn in the corridor. I see his head bent forward, peering round. He looks back, waves a hand and is gone. Round this bend I know is Dean Bishop’s room, halfway along the corridor. As I pass the door I can hear voices but I hurry on, thankful to reach the next corner and see round it Charlie beckoning from the entrance to the gym. Gratefully I duck inside and Charlie closes the door behind me with just a little click.

The gym reeks with the memory of rubber mats, ropes, varnished wood and old sweat. Charlie leads the way across to a set of wall bars. Too late I remember I was hopeless at gym, could never vault over the box or horse, dangled useless at the end of a rope, unable to haul myself up hand over hand like a jolly Jack Tar, took half an hour to climb the rungs of the wall bars, reverse and hang proudly like a crucified Christ.

No good thinking about it, Jade. Already Charlie and Omi are shinning up, nimble as meerkats. At the top Charlie opens a narrow slit of window and props it up with the bag of equipment before slithering through. I start on my painful way up. I just hope my bum doesn’t get stuck in that narrow gap. It would be so shaming if the boys had to push and pull me through. Omi has followed Charlie, and is looking down at me anxiously. He must be standing on the flat roof.

Somehow that, and the fear of failure before his concerned eyes, gives me a boost. I’ve reached the top. The boys have taken the bag away and are holding the window open for me, giving me the maximum space. I start to feed my head and shoulders through the gap, levering myself forward on my arms. The bitumen surface of the roof is only half a metre below. My nostrils are filled with its tarry, friar’s balsam fumes drawn out by the hot sun. I bring my arms up and through the window. The danger now that I’m not holding on is of falling back into the gym. I try to squirm through but the waistband of my jeans
is caught on the windowsill. Fighting down panic I reach down to my hips and flatten it over the metal bar, wriggle again and I’m going through, falling forward with my face in the tar, drawing up my knees, turning on my back and pulling my legs and feet further into the foetal position and I’m there. What a dog’s breakfast. I vow to take up kick boxing, yoga, acrobatics.

‘Well done, Jade,’ Charlie says solemnly just like an old PE teacher, cheering on the slobs when they’d managed not to fall off the horse.

‘What next?’ I ask, still catching my breath. My diaphragm feels as if I’ve been socked in the guts.

‘Now we go down to the ground. With the rope ladder. I will go first. You next, Jade. Then Omi last, bringing the ladder. We can hide behind the bushes.’

Stupidly I go to the edge and look over. It seems a long way down even though the kitchen block is only a single-storey extension. ‘Ready?’ I nod. Charlie comes across to the edge and hooks one of the ladders over the low parapet around the roof. He crouches down and begins to lower himself on to the first rung over the side. I see his body disappearing as if sinking in mud or quicksand until there’s only his face. Then that’s gone too.

I go forward at a crouch and try to imitate him as closely as possible. My feet fumble around before they make contact with a rung. Then I begin to lower myself, my hands grazed by the stone coping, my legs weak with fright. It seems to take for ever going down because all I can see is the brick wall in front of my nose. My feet are reaching blindly for another rung when they touch ground with a hard jar to my spine. I’m down. I let go. Turn, look round and head for the cover of the nearest institutional azalea.

Omi is down in a flash, jerks the hooks off the parapet and catches the ladder as it comes hurtling down before it can hit the ground with a clang. He must be invaluable on a cricket
pitch as the traditional safe pair of hands. The top of Charlie’s head comes out from behind a nearby bush and then a hand waving us on. We set off, dodging from shrub to shrub and then suddenly I see one of the side walls of the chapel. We’re there. Time for me to resume charge of this operation. I head for the iron ladder. No time to check whether the bottom door is locked. Mentally I cross my fingers that the other two aren’t.

I can hear Charlie and Omi, panting a bit now, behind me on the ladder. I pull on the ring door handle. It turns. I’m inside the little room. Now I remember the reason for the torches. It’s pitch black as Charlie blocks out the light from the door. I take the bag from him, grope around for a torch and switch on. Omi joins me. I gesture for them to shut the door. Then we all stand still and listen. No sound comes up from below.

Taking a tin of putty out of the bag I force some into the keyhole until it’s completely blocked. Any attempt to put a key in from the other side would, I hope, force putty deeper into the lock, jamming the mechanism. I move over to the little door opposite and begin to prise it gently open, switching off the torch at the same time.

A muted hum rises from the body of the chapel, not of voices but an amalgam of breathing and shuffling with an occasional cough that tells us there are people there, people who aren’t speaking to each other even in whispers, who’re just waiting. You can almost feel the throb of expectancy in the air, steaming up from where they must be sitting. I have to risk being seen and take a look. After all that’s what you’re there for, Jade.

Crouching down I inch forward as I did before until I can just see down through the gallery railing. There are indeed people in the chapel, some on their knees, others sitting quietly with closed eyes. I switch my view to the main door. It’s open and in the corridor outside I can see Mary-Ann Molders vetting the students as they approach. She seems to be asking their
names and ticking them off on a list before letting them in to join the rest.

The big video screen I saw being carried in is glowing faintly. Someone begins to doodle fragments of mood-enhancing music on the organ. The show, whatever it is, must be about to get on the road. The organ swells, as Dean Bishop comes through the door which shuts behind him. Decked out in green and white silk like an old ship in full sail, mitred and croziered, he makes his way to the pulpit, the Molders slipping into an empty front chair. I’m wondering what authority he has to be in full fig as an ordained cleric, whether you have to get permission, and whether there’s an offence of impersonating a minister like that of assuming police or military uniforms, of if anyone can play. I’m still turning this over and deciding that he could probably be done for fraud at least, when he begins to speak.

The little stock of money I had carried with me when I set out from my lodging was nearly gone. I had hidden the rest in a bag under my mattress but that was a hundred miles away in London. I supposed that if I did not return my landlady would find it. I wondered if she would send it to me if I writ to her for it but this seemed a burden on her honesty and in any case I did not know if she could read what I might write to her.

My best hope was in the duenna that she would carry a message to my lady or that the countess herself would return to the great house to oversee her removal to London for I could not imagine that she would leave that to servants.

Now that Mr Davys, her steward whom she had trusted in all things, was dead there was none I believed, apart from myself, that she would put such faith in. Therefore I writ to my lady with the superscription that the letter should be opened and read by the duenna in the countess her absence. I prayed that it would not fall into the hands of Dr Adrian Gilbert or I were
as good as dead, for I believed that if he could not accomplish his design by lawful means that he would have no compunction in having me smothered in my cell as the hunchback king did for the two princes in the Tower.

When I had my letter done and the gaoler came to bring me clean water and empty the pisspot, I gave him a penny, promising him more if he would see it safely delivered to my lady or the duenna and I bade him by no means to let it fall into the hands of another if he wished for more money.

‘Then indeed you have friends in high places and can read and write like one bred to the university. But there is something more I would have of you if indeed you are a witch and have the power from the devil to kill or cure.’

‘I am not a witch master constable and I have no truck with the devil except like all men in respect that he goeth where he listeth like the wind about the world. But for all that I may be able to help you if your ailment has a natural cause.’

‘It is not natural for it is natural for a man to be able to do his duty and pleasure his lawful wife. But my man will not stand and therefore I believe I am bewitched and would have you perform a counter-magic of your devising and skill to take off this spell that is upon me.’

Now I saw that I was like a coney in a snare, that pulling against the noose would only tighten it about me for if I did nothing for him he would cease to serve me and if I pretended to be what I was not he might speak against me before the justice, especially if his state did not improve.